Numb
by Tezelshmack
Summary: Set early season 7- having had all his memory restored, Sam is not only suffering from the crushing guilt of his actions, but also from "Robo-Sam" decisions his body still seems to be making for him.
1. Chapter 1

**Two-shot:**

**Starts out with a bit of humor, but descends into full blown angst pretty soon.**

**Warnings: **

**Sam being far sexier than he ought to be allowed, lots of vomiting, a Ruby flashback that might be PG will probably end up being PG-13, self-harm implied, tons of angst and maybe some manly tears. Also a pretty brutal, but undetailed, kill in the beginning.**

**Disclaimer:**

**I OWN NOTHING. Erik Kripke and all that, you know how it is.**

**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**

Dean had known that his brother had bulked up quite a bit over the last year spent as a soulless maniac screwing his way across the states, but this- this was just ridiculous. Sam was like... like, freaking _Wolverine_ or something.

Dean was sprawled flat on his back in the mud, trying to decide if his knee was just wrenched, or possibly completely gone, but he managed to lurch himself sort of upright to squint through the freezing, driving rain to see how his brother was coming along. He spotted him just in time to watch as Sam surged up from where he'd fallen, jaw set hard and eyes glittering, to practically pick the shifter completely up and body slam it to the rain slicked ground. His hair, darkened almost black from the wet, hung dripping in his face as he dropped with the shifter and drove a knee into it's chest. Big hands gripped either side of its head and in one swift movement that sent muscles rippling all up through his arms and into his broad back he gave a twist, easily snapping its neck. Without missing a beat, Sam reached back, pulled his handgun from the back of his soaked jeans and fired a silver bullet point-blank into the still twitching shifter's heart.

He stayed there for a minute then, staring into the face he wondered if he should recognize, panting only slightly. Dean tried to clamber to his feet, but the movement made his vision go gray, so he just sat back down in the mud, still watching Sam. He could only see the bottom half of his face, as the rest was obscured by dark hair, and Sam's mouth was deathly pale, lips parted slightly as though he were saying something.

"Sam!" Ah... dammit. He hadn't meant to sound like that, worry and pain laced in his voice, but it snapped Sam out of his little "moment" pretty well. His head came up and as soon as the hair was flung back from his face and he got a good look at Dean the puppy eyes were back, just like that. He shoved up from the ground, almost tripping over the dead shifter's feet in his haste, and covered the distance between them, skidding to his knees beside Dean.

"Dean, y'alright?" His voice was quiet, obviously shaken, but with an underlying note of relief. Dean clenched his teeth against a slight wave of pain-induced nausea, looked up at Sam- and started laughing.

He didn't feel like laughing, what with a busted leg and a brother's mind going postal, but he just couldn't help it. Sam still had his pistol gripped in his hand and there was a cut on his jaw that was slowly oozing blood down the side of his neck, but all Dean could do was laugh. He knew that would just make Sam freak out, but it was just- well... his brother was a beast, plain and simple.

His jeans were soaked through, the dark denim clinging to his lean thighs, and his t-shirt had become like a second skin, sticking to his heaving chest and fitted to every muscle contour. The gun was hastily replaced, and corded arms reached out to keep Dean from face-planting, but the big hand spread across his chest only made Dean laugh harder. "Sorry," he finally managed to gasp out. "M'fine."

Sam didn't answer, just started feeling Dean over for injuries, taking special note of the cold hand gripping the knee. When Sam moved to face him, Dean let himself slump forward, his face coming to land against a sharp collarbone.

"'_Hunter's Weekly_,'" he giggled into Sam's freezing skin. "'Sam Winchester, sex symbol of the year.'"

_"What?"_ Strong hands gripped his shoulders tight and levered him upright, and he found himself looking into Sam's concerned face as several pained gasps broke forth. Sam's eyes flickered back and forth between his own, blinking rain from his eyelashes where it tended to stick, making the lashes cling together in perfect, dark, star-points.

"- concussion," he was saying. "You've got a concussion, you idiot."

"I'm not an idiot," Dean pointed out, feeling his head grow heavy and start to dip down again.

"You look really pale." Sam was starting to stammer, and Dean found himself really wishing he could pull it together a little more. "Are you gonna be sick? We need to get out of the rain. Tell me if you're going to be sick."

Dean tucked his chin against his chest and tried to breathe. "I'm-" he gagged. "Not gonna be sick."

The hands on his arms jostled him a little then, which proved to be a mistake, and also proved him very wrong. He would have warned Sam, really, and was actually opening his mouth to do just that when apparently his stomach decided it didn't want to stay inside him anymore, thanks very much.

Sam jerked back violently, but still managed to keep Dean upright as he retched and pretty much projectile vomited all over the both of them. "Oh... god," he moaned, feeling both rain and vomit trickle down his neck. "I did not-" _know that was gonna happen_, he was going to say, but obviously his body had other ideas as he shuddered and threw up again, this time aiming a bit lower and decorating the front of Sam's jeans from waist to knees. God, that was just mean, but he was too busy breathing to apologize.

Sam's fingers were pressing into his arms hard enough to leave bruises, and only then did Dean realize his brother was starting to panic. "Don't you be sick too," he choked out raggedly.

"I'm not," Sam whispered, his voice shaking. "I just, I- I need you to tell me-" He was almost hyperventilating now, his hands trembling. "Tell me that's not blood. Please."

_Oh god, he was begging now._

Dean swallowed hard, bile burning his throat, and forced his eyes open. He shut them again quickly. Uh, yeah. That was definitely nothing but puke. Everywhere. If Sam thought it was blood no wonder the guy was freaked.

"No blood," he muttered, reaching up to latch onto Sam's arm.

"You checked?" Sam was catching his breath, but his eyes were still pinched shut, face drawn.

"I checked," Dean answered, digging his blunt fingernails into the soft skin on the inside of Sam's wrist and leaving small, crescent shaped marks.

Sam gasped then and relaxed a little. "Okay," he said, more to himself than Dean. "Okay, let's go then."

"But-"

"No," Sam cut him off. "The body can wait. You've got a concussion and a messed up leg. We're going straight back to Bobby's." Even though just saying the man's name brought back that crushing guilt.

"What - 'bout you?" Dean asked as Sam struggled to pull them both to their feet.

"What about me?" He answered automatically, taking on almost all of Dean's weight as his leg gave out under him.

The flash of pain made Dean gag again, and through the gasping he managed to get out, "You're... cold."

Sam almost could have laughed as he half-dragged Dean through the freezing rain and mud, but Dean was wrecked, and the movement out of the corner of his eye was making him uneasy.

**ssssss**

Once Dean was settled in the passenger seat, his vision finally stopped going all spotty and he could breathe easier. His knee still hurt like a bitch, and the throwing up had given him a killer headache, but at least he felt a little more aware now. He kept his mouth shut and his head still, but watched Sam as he rounded the front of the Impala and settled himself on the blanket he had spread over the bench seat. Dean would have to thank him for that later.

**ssssss**

And halfway back to Bobby's he found himself even more thankful. Sam was driving carefully, really, but he was also jumpy and in a hurry, and just wasn't quick enough to slow down going over the bump in the road dividing gravel and asphalt. The lurch made the back of Dean's head erupt into throbbing, and before he even knew it was going to happen he was curling over and vomiting again. At this point it was nothing more than slimy spit and stomach acid, but still.

He had just thrown up, in his car, all over his lap. He was sure Sam would forgive him the involuntary tears of pain that managed to escape from under his eyelashes, because his miserable state far out-weighed his pride this time. He sniffed and shivered, feeling his injured leg start to tremble, and only then realized that Sam had pulled off the road and was reaching over to gently wrap one of his huge hands around the back of Dean's neck.

Dean hunched over more and clenched his teeth tightly. He was not going to cry. He just wasn't.

Sam just dropped another blanket on top of him and used a corner of it to briskly wipe the rain, vomit, and now tears off his pale face, his long, cold fingers burying themselves slightly in the short, soft hairs on the back of Dean's head.

"It's okay," he murmured, the low tones of his voice mingling with the growl of the engine, and if the circumstances had been any different Dean would have been pissed about Sam taking over his role. "You'll be fine," Sam continued softly, retreating to his side of the car and turning them back onto the road. "I'll get you back to Bobby's and then we can get you fixed up."

Dean accidentally let out a tiny sound that might have been a whimper, and Sam was quick to respond. "And cleaned up," he promised, knowing his brother's pride must be taking quite a beating. "It's gonna be okay."

Dean nodded, even though he knew Sam couldn't see. It would be okay.

**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**

**So this is going to just be a little two-shot. I started it with just the intention of getting Sam really cold and making Dean have to get him warm again, but it kind of morphed into me taking it out of both the boys ;) What can I say, I'm a sucker for whumpage!**

**Up next**: _Robo-Sam never seemed to get cold. He was all business, all the time; no time for things like being cold or an arm out of socket. Sometimes it was almost as though normal things like the weather and pain hardly seemed to affect him. Sammy, however, was definitely affected by being out in the freezing rain with only one layer of clothes to protect him from the elements. It was as if his body was betraying him, operating on a level of Robo-Sam inspired carelessness._

**... and so shall we segue into the switch from Sam taking care of Dean to Dean taking care of Sam. If nothing else at least the guys seem pretty good at taking turns ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**

Okay. So. This really got away from me, and turned into a much-longer-than-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be three-part story. So sorry it's taken this long to update! But the good news is that I've been working on both parts 2 and 3 at the same time, so the final chapter should be up much, MUCH sooner :)

**sssssssssssssssssss**

"Robo-Sam" never seemed to get cold. He was all business, all the time; no time for things like being cold, or an arm out of socket, or whatever. Sometimes it was almost as though normal things like the weather and pain hardly seemed to affect him. Sammy, however, was definitely affected by being out in the freezing rain with only one layer of clothes to protect him from the elements. It was as if his body was betraying him, operating on a level of Robo-Sam inspired carelessness.

So he pushed it down. Pushed down the guilt that constantly threatened to crush him under its weight, pushed down the fact that he was so numb from the cold that he couldn't even shiver, the fact that Lucifer was watching interestedly over the back of the couch as he rolled Dean onto it, ever mindful of his right knee. Dean was in a mild state of shock, and Sam had practically had to carry him into the house when he almost passed out in the driveway. Bobby had greeted them only with a worried shake of his head, mouth pressed in a thin line, and Sam had probably stammered some lame-ass apology, as if that would help anything.

For now he just kept quiet, accepted the blanket from Bobby to wrap Dean's shaking form in, ignored Lucifer's constant, thoughtful, monologue on what he thought of the situation. He pushed his still dripping hair out of his eyes and tried to get his frozen fingers to respond enough to unlace Dean's boots, while Bobby just sank tiredly into a chair close by and looked both boys over.

"What the hell happened?" He finally demanded, and Sam flinched a little, even though he knew the gruff tone was just a cover for the caring underneath.

"He's got a concussion," he answered, resisting the urge to smack Lucifer's hand away as he tried to "help" untie a knot in Dean's bootlace.

Bobby sighed. "Guess that explains that then," he muttered, gesturing vaguely to Sam's jeans.

"And somethin's up with his knee," Sam continued quietly. "Probably dislocated..."

"And the shifter?" Bobby asked as Sam finally dropped Dean's mud-caked boots on the floor.

Sam huffed a short, humorless laugh as he moved up to kneel by Dean's head. "Uh yeah, it's dead," he muttered, arranging his brother's trembling arms so they crossed over his chest and wrapping the blanket more tightly, effectively restricting his movement and keeping him relatively still. Dean was breathing sharply through his teeth, biting down hard on pained noises that Sam could hear building in his throat.

"Just hang on a sec, Dean," he offered softly, reaching up for a moment and quickly swiping his hand over the rain-slicked spikes of hair, dislodging beads of water. "Your knee's kinda been dislocated, I'm just gonna pop it back real quick."

Bobby's slightly sarcastic snort wasn't lost on Sam, but he ignored it as he hovered over Dean's knee for a moment, not wanting to touch it until he knew exactly how he was going to get it back into place. He swallowed hard, noticing his hands were shaking almost as badly as Dean's leg, and then frowned, settled his hands on the offending knee, and harshly wrenched it back where it belonged, feeling bone and muscle shift under his grip.

Dean reacted immediately, his back arching and throwing him upward off the couch as he mostly failed in choking down a yelp of pain. Sam winced and reached forward to spread his stiff fingers across Dean's chest and press him back into the couch while listening to his sharp, gasping breaths. Without a word Bobby pushed himself up off his chair and Sam soon heard him banging cabinets in the bathroom, looking for something to wrap Dean's knee with.

"Damn it… Sam, that… hurt," Dean managed after a minute, his eyes shut tight and his face worryingly pale.

"I know," Sam murmured in reply, absently noticing the lack of goosebumps on his bare forearm. "Just hang on; I'll get it wrapped up good for you."

Dean shivered, and his mouth twisted in a petulant frown, his chest heaving a hitching sigh under Sam's hand. Sam clumsily shifted his numb legs out from underneath him and sat on the floor, leaning slightly against the couch so he could keep his hand on Dean. He waited for the inevitable complaint he had heard in Dean's sigh, his eyes tracing the fine pain lines around his brother's closed eyes.

"I've got a problem, Sammy," Dean suddenly said, his voice a bit hoarse.

Sam's eyebrows drew together in confusion, the casual plaintiveness of Dean's statement throwing him off. "What is it?" He asked, and Dean turned his head to face him with a grimace.

After a second he forced his eyes opened and squinted blearily at Sam, although the lines around his eyes were more starting to resemble the ones that deepened when he was smiling. "Well…" he closed his eyes again and actually started laughing softly as he tried to get the words out past his tight throat. "I really… _heh_, really don't wanna keep wearing these clothes…" he started laughing harder, and only when an involuntary tear snuck down his temple did Sam realize that he was mostly just laughing as a response to pain. _Also concussion_, he reminded himself, but he couldn't help smiling, albeit a little sadly.

"I get that, Dean," he assured. "But what's the problem?"

Dean opened his eyes again and blinked, seemingly a little bewildered at the built up moisture. "Uh… what?"

Sam snorted a disbelieving, yet genuine, laugh. _Yeah, concussion_. "Seriously?" He said, raising his eyebrows disapprovingly. Dean just looked nonplussed.

"Dude," Sam chuckled. "You were just saying that you wanted your puked on clothes off, so what's the problem? I sure don't blame you, man." He wryly indicated his… well, _entire self_.

"Well, I don't want _you_ undressing me," Dean snarked, half-heartedly trying to wrestle his arms out from under the blanket.

Bobby faltered in his return to the room and gave Sam a look over the couch. "'m I interrupting something?" He asked, and Dean jerked his head around to look at him, though he immediately regretted the action.

"He's tryin' to take my clothes off, Bobby…" he practically whined, and Sam took his distraction as an opportunity to start yanking his jeans down. Dean protested weakly and tried to wriggle away. "Stop it, Sam," he muttered. "I can take my own damn clothes off, 'm not freaking five-" he broke off his complaining with a startled gasp when Sam's knuckles brushed his bare leg, and he gave Sam a wide-eyed look. "Holy _shit_ your hands are _actually_ frigid_,_" he snapped, struggling to sit upright. "Why the hell haven't you gotten warmed up yet?"

Sam just gave him a long-suffering look and dropped his filthy jeans on the floor before accepting the rolled Ace bandage from Bobby and starting to carefully wrap Dean's knee.

Dean realized he wasn't going to get an answer and surprisingly decided not to press it, instead slowly extracting himself from the blanket and starting to peel his wet jacket and shirts off. He threw them onto the floor with his jeans then seemed to deflate, delegated to slumping awkwardly on the couch in nothing but his shorts and socks while Sam wrapped his knee uncomfortably tight. He was shivering, he realized after a moment, and curled his arms around himself as he slowly leaned forward to rest the side of his head on his good knee.

Sam's big hands were unsteady but practiced as he worked, and Dean let himself get caught up in the familiar movement until he was suddenly blinking away darkness and being pushed back up onto the couch by those big, freezing cold hands.

He was about to ask _what the hell_, but Sam just let him tip over to sort of lay on the couch and then was feeling for a pulse under his jaw. "Alright, how about no more passing out and knocking me on my ass, yeah?" There were lines of worry between his eyebrows, but his voice was soft, hardly even a whisper as he sort of nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with the mostly steady beat he felt under his numb fingertips.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled into the couch, wishing his eyes would stay open on their own. "Sammy?" He managed after a moment, hissing a little when Sam's probing fingers found the split skin on the back of his head. "Y're really friggin' cold, man. Should get dry."

Sam sighed softly somewhere above him, and Dean wasn't sure if he imagined the shakiness in it or not. After a long, rather vague moment in which Dean's brain inexplicably tried to remember what he'd had for breakfast, he forced his eyes open and blinked to clear them before locating Sam. Both of him. "Ahh…" he said, unintentionally drawing out the sound of realization. "Do I have a concussion?"

Sam was sitting on the floor again, feeling a little sick considering the state of his clothes, slowly rubbing his hands up and down his arms and occasionally giving a little jerk that was reminiscent of a shudder. He was cold, he just now realized. Like, really cold. But it was like his body didn't even know how to respond, sinking into a sort of shock-like state and refusing to react properly. It didn't help that Lucifer was crouched behind him, knees bumping Sam's spine while he blew his icy breath across the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he answered mechanically, his gaze settling somewhere by Dean's feet as he fought the urge to pull the knife out of his boot and cut his left hand open. "Shifter split your skull," he elaborated, his voice drowning out Lucifer's soft, droning, mumbling behind him. "You'll be fine if you just take it easy for a couple days, and avoid taking headers off the couch again."

Dean huffed, clearly not amused, and eyed Sam distrustfully. "Go take a damn shower," he finally ordered softly. "I ain't takin' care of your sorry ass if you get pneumonia or somethin' stupid like that."

Sam didn't look up, but his whole face gave a funny twitch, almost like he wanted to smile. "Yeah you would," he murmured, his shoulders jerking again.

"_Sam_," Dean's impatience gave him enough energy to push himself at least into a sitting position, and his head only spun for a few seconds. "Don't make me make you," he warned, ducking his head down to get a look at Sam's pale face and glassy eyes. "Sam!" He snapped, guiltily relieved when that elicited a small jump of surprised attention. "Get warm. _Now_."

With a grimace, Sam finally surged up from the floor and stumbled awkwardly across the room, his own numb feet tripping him up. Dean watched him go, and only when the bathroom door shut behind him did he allow himself a muffled groan of pain as he carefully flopped back onto the couch. "Damn it," he whispered, and then fell silent, waiting to make sure he heard the shower turn on.

**sssssssssssss**

So basically this chapter's just here to keep things moving. Next chapter will have plenty of Sam angst and Awesome!Dean moments ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**So this is it. Part three. My first time ever finishing a multi-chapter anything. I am seriously SO proud of this. I put a ton into it emotionally and mentally, and I really hope it works.**

**I didn't realize it until I was writing it, but this is kind of me fixing an aspect of season 7 for myself. I know that season wasn't very popular, but I loved it anyways. My main problem though, was how they dealt with Sam's wall coming down. Some of it was done really well, flawlessly even, but I found it kind of out of character and unbelievable how Dean responded. I mean, it wasn't that bad, but I seriously think he would have been way more affected by it than what we saw, so let's just say this happened when no one was looking (except Bobby). **

**There is a sort of flashback Sam/Ruby scene that I kind of surprised myself with... it's not terrible detailed though ;) And oh! the angst. Very, very much angst here. You have been warned. Like, I intended for it to be Angsty!Sam and Awesome!Dean, but it kind of just turned into a heart-wrenching sob-fest for me. So you get just pure angst. Enjoy.**

**(additional A/N at the end to avoid any fic spoilers)**

**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**

After five minutes of complete and utter silence, save the deluge still threatening to wash the house away, Dean felt himself start to drift off. He was freezing, and he knew that if Sam were here he would be wrapping him up in blankets like he was a stupid little kid, and reminding him that he couldn't go to sleep with such a fresh concussion. But Sam wasn't here, he was... supposed to be doing something... or- yeah... _showering._ That's what he was supposed to be doing, only Dean couldn't hear the water running, even though he should have been able to.

He was just taking a breath to holler when a blanket was suddenly thrown on top of him and he was poked rather than tapped between the eyes.

"Don't go to sleep on me, boy," Bobby grumbled, continuing to stand over him until the only slightly vacant eyes blinked open.

"I'm not," Dean automatically protested, but it came out more whiny than indignant, and Bobby just quirked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"Whatever you say, chief," he muttered, turning to his chair.

"Ah, ah, wait..." Dean struggled to sit up, the blanket pooling in his lap. The drying blood on the back of his head was making his hair stick up in a cowlick, and he was wearing a bitch-face that could rival Sam's, although he probably didn't know that.

Bobby had to fight back a smile. "What do you need, son?"

Dean squinted for a second, his head tilted like he was listening. "Sam," he finally announced, though he still looked confused.

"Nice to hear ya say it out loud," Bobby remarked, unable to hold back a grin this time.

Dean just looked at him, and after a few seconds his face slipped into a half-hearted scowl. "Ass-hole," he said, pushing himself forward to perch on the edge of the couch. "I meant help me get to him. The idiot's freezing to death and apparently has forgotten how to turn the shower on."

Bobby gave him a look. "Shouldn't be goin' anywhere on that leg," he started, but Dean's glare suggested otherwise.

"Fine," he grouched, yanking the blanket away from Dean to wrap it around his shoulders like a cloak. "I know you'd just threaten to walk there yourself anyhow."

"Damn straight," Dean groaned softly as Bobby wrapped an arm around his middle and hauled him to his feet, making his head pound from the sudden change. He was quite possibly going to be sick again, but not immediately, and Bobby didn't necessarily need to know.

They made it across the room without incident, and when they reached the bathroom Dean just shrugged Bobby off and slipped through the door without knocking. Bobby rolled his eyes at the closed door and decided that the weather was definitely a good excuse to put some coffee in his whiskey. Or, whiskey in his coffee, that is.

Dean almost ran into Sam's back when he slipped into the cramped room, but Sam didn't even seem to notice. He had made it as far as the middle of the floor, and had managed to slip his shoes off, but was just standing there, arms loosely wrapped around his middle as he stared blankly at his sock feet. Dean stared at his tense back for a moment, and then suddenly realized he was completely at a loss for words. Normally, he would start up the teasing right about now... _we could do this the hard way or the easy way... if you wanted to do this together you could have just asked_... but he just couldn't. There was something about the way Sam was just... shutting down, that made him sick to his stomach, because he didn't know what was wrong or how to fix it.

Finally he just sidled up next to his brother and nudged him carefully with his shoulder, not missing the way Sam automatically flinched.

"Come on," he encouraged, deliberately keeping his voice soft as he slipped a hand out from under his blanket to rest lightly on Sam's back. "Just keep your clothes on, you can take 'em off once they're rinsed out."

After a second Sam sort of shook himself and lurched forward, still stumbling a little as if his feet didn't want to cooperate. He half-tripped clambering into the tub, and Dean turned from checking the cabinet behind the door for towels in time to see him give up on trying to turn on the faucet with his shaking hands and sit down, looking vaguely dejected.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam," he sighed under his breath, bracing a hand against the wall as he limped across the room. He used the edge of the tub to lower himself to the floor, and ducked his head to look at Sam's face.

"Want your socks off?" He asked quietly, and Sam nodded, his face still strangely blank as he stiffly pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

"Kay..." Dean murmured, shrugging his blanket off his shoulders and leaning over to pull Sam's socks off. He pulled the curtain half-shut with a flick of the wrist and turned the water on, holding his hand under the faucet until it was hot before flipping it to the shower head.

Sam jerked when the water hit him, shutting his eyes tight and tilting back slightly to let it pound his chest. He could hear Dean muttering and fidgeting, trying to situate himself comfortably on the floor next to the tub, and finally, _finally,_ the hot water started to soak through his freezing clothes and make his skin tingle almost painfully.

As Dean kept a watchful eye, Sam gradually relaxed and loosened under the hot water, to the point of listing over against the edge of the tub. After a minute he reached out to put a hand on his little brother's shoulder, gently pushing him upright again. The wet cotton of the thin t-shirt slid under his fingers, and Dean's eyes were immediately drawn to the mark on Sam's skin as soon as it was uncovered.

"What the hell..." He muttered, running his thumb across the red, crescent-shaped blemish. There was a matching mark an inch or two away, and suddenly Dean realized what he was looking at. "Did that shifter bite you, Sam?" He demanded a little incredulously, wincing at the way his head pounded in response to his own raised voice.

Sam didn't answer, hardly seemed to register than Dean was talking to him, and as Dean traced his eyes around the bite-mark realization slammed into him so hard he almost threw up again. That wasn't just any bite mark, it was a mark he recognized, having seen it on his own wrist several years ago.

He'd been stitching up a cut on Sam's chest that was too close to his neck for him to reach himself, and when the needle pierced skin Sam had bit down, _hard_, on the first thing he could set his teeth into- which just so happened to be Dean's arm. Dean had had to basically bitch-slap him to get him to let go, yelping something like _"don't bite me, you kinky little shit,"_ and Sam had laughed so hard he cried, and then kept crying because stitches hurt so damn bad without real painkiller, and because he was already drunk on Dean's own special "road-medicine".

So yeah he recognized that mark on Sam's arm, because it was his own brother's damn teethmarks. Shit. _Shit._

"Sammy..." he started, but couldn't get his voice out loud enough, his fingers unconsciously digging into Sam's warming flesh.

Sam seemed to freeze then, his arms tensing and his feet curling in on themselves as his face remained carefully blank. "I'm... fine," he whispered, his voice barely rising above the sound of the shower. "It's nothing."

_'Oh it's something alright, buddy,'_ Lucifer commented from where he was practically hanging over Dean's shoulder. _'And now big brother's gonna know. Wonder how he'll feel about sweet Sammy hurting himself to make the big, bad, devil go away-'_

Dean's voice cut across then, and Sam latched onto it, even though he wanted to shrug Dean off, curl into himself, let the only thing that existed be the hot water.

"God, Sammy," Dean was whispering, hurt and confusion somehow mingling flawlessly in his tone. "You... you did this? To yourself?"

_'Damn straight,' _Lucifer chuckled. _'We're thinking about the knives, next...'_

Sam reached across himself and pushed at Dean's hand with trembling fingers, trying to pull his sleeve down to cover the mark, and Dean let him, his face troubled as he sat back to lean against the wall.

"It's nothing," Sam whispered again, ducking his head to rest his forehead on his soaked denim knees. "I'm fine... I'm- it's nothing."

It had been a mistake, really. Far less effective than he'd hoped, and then it only served to bring on a flood of memories that he would really rather not even think about. It was just... the, scar thing had been working, pretty damn well sometimes, but it had become a tell. Just one more thing in their screwed up world that reminded Dean of how hopeless things had become. So Sam had considered other ways. He was cautious, knowing the dark road it could lead to, but if it worked... he couldn't help but think it would be better than seeing that look in Dean's eyes. He had thought about it when he was sharpening a knife earlier that week, but then Lucifer had enthusiastically encouraged him and he'd dropped the knife and nearly split the stitches open on his hand with his thumbnail.

And so this had come up. He hardly remembered doing it, just that at the time he'd been frantic, overwhelmed, desperate for anything that made him feel, that made the lie that he knew Lucifer had to be fade, at least for a while. It had hurt, sure, but it didn't work, and the circumstances had been just... perfect, to bring back a jarring rush of memories. He'd braced himself against the wall of the shower and gagged, more from the knowledge that he'd have to carry the mark for days now than from the actual memories.

But here he was now. The situation was painfully similar, only now it was all out there, in the open. And Sam couldn't handle it. He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to look at Dean, at Lucifer crouching on the floor next to his brother, even though the darkness of his eyelids and the near-scalding flood of water brought those same memories resurfacing again.

He was so cold, just as he had been then. Numb and aching inside, lacking the willpower to even stand, just letting the water hit at the crown of his head and trickle over him- bowed back, drawn up knees, hands clasped around ankles. He was clothed now, jeans and t-shirt clinging uncomfortably, unlike then. Then he had been exposed, a flayed nerve, in every sense of the word.

Even when he opened his eyes for a moment, flooding them painfully with water, he couldn't un-see it all. Couldn't not remember that small, tiled shower; the slim, pale form that slipped up beside him, ran fingers through his hair, pressed her water-slicked body to his back, making a shiver run through his entire frame.

And god help him, he had let her. Dean had been gone, and Ruby had become all he had, or at least that's how he'd seen it at the time. He had reminded himself that he didn't care -_couldn't care_- and he had let her coax him to his feet so they stood together under the spray of hot, metallic water. He had let her clear the dirt and blood from his hair and face, and she had latched onto his submission; kissed him hard and fierce with empty promises that everything would be fine, her hands moving over him, _all of him_, making his body tremble with want when what his heart wanted was to just be dead. She had demanded response, and he didn't care, just gave her what she wanted.

He hadn't cared when she'd slammed him back into the tiled wall with far more strength than someone of her stature ought to be able to, when her supple legs had wrapped around his waist, when she'd thrust herself onto him with so much force that his knees had buckled and he had keened, low and guttural, into her mouth.

He hadn't cared when he had sank his teeth into her flesh, biting rather than nipping, over and over, until he pierced the bitter skin and tasted sharp, pungent power filling his mouth, flaring in sparks all through his limbs and torso, every muscle in him drawn tight as a bow.

And for reasons that he now couldn't begin to fathom, he hadn't cared when she'd returned the favor, her sharp little teeth making his own hot blood drip down his chest and stomach. Later she had pulled the collar of his shirt down to trace her fingertip around the bite mark, and she had smiled. He realized now that it was because she had marked him, and liked it. Maybe he had known that then, but just didn't care.

But he cared now. _God_, he cared.

And Dean cared, which is why he was just sitting there, propped against the bathroom wall, his wrapped leg awkwardly extended out before him and his head tipped back, eyes half closed. Not demanding an explanation, but waiting for one, because they both somehow knew that Sam would start talking eventually.

He took a deep breath, not giving himself time to think, and forced himself into action, slowly peeling his dripping t-shirt off while he tried to conjure the right words. They weren't coming, so he threw the shirt to the floor by the sink with a wet _slap_, and looked up at Dean through strands of dark hair.

Dean was watching him, his pale mouth parted slightly and his freckles once more standing out. He looked like he was probably going to be sick again, and Sam couldn't think of the last time he had seen his brother look so young. Without a word he extended his hand, well aware of the glaring, mangled scar on his palm, and Dean took it without hesitation, letting Sam pull him forward so he could lean over the edge of the tub and puke. There was almost nothing left to come up, but he kept gagging, gripping Sam's hand so hard that when he glanced up Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. Small mercies, he supposed, sliding himself further to his end of the tub as he watched the water wash his brother's sick down the drain.

Finally Dean slumped back against the wall, his eyes falling half closed again as he just breathed. Sam leaned forward to adjust the water temperature, and when he felt Dean's eyes on him he held his hand out again, so they could both look at the scar.

"It has to heal sometime," he started softly, ignoring how his hand was still shaking. "I wasn't- I just wondered if something, something else might work."

"For Lucifer, you mean?" Dean's voice was ragged, his gaze fixed on Sam's hand.

Sam was quiet for a minute, then pulled his arm back to wrap around his knees again as he gave a small shrug.

"It's that bad?" Dean asked softly, and when Sam looked up at him he was shocked at the openness he saw in his brother's face.

He shivered, and blinked water out of his eyes, fixing his eyes on the leaky faucet in front of him, because yes, it was that bad. Because seeing the devil every second of every day was nothing but _that bad._ Because hearing Lucifer's voice more than your own brother's was always _that bad._

"Yeah," he blurted out before he could stop himself, sniffing slightly as his eyes started to burn. "Yeah, it's that bad."

Dean didn't say anything, but when Sam chanced a look at him he saw he had rolled his head along the wall to face the other way, hand covering his mouth, elbow on the knee of his bent good leg.

"You know you can talk to me about it," he said after a minute, his voice slightly muffled, and the tears that Sam had mostly been able to blink back were quite suddenly not content to stay put.

He slid his feet along the bottom of the tub, pushing his toes against the end long before his legs could stretch out, feeling the insistent drops of water patter against his jeans.

"I don't remember everything," he finally said, and reached forward to shut the water off. The "from Hell" didn't need to be said out loud.

There was quiet then, just the dripping of water from the shower head, and the faucet, and Sam. He quickly rubbed a hand down his face, and then stared at that same hand, eyes tracing the line of the scar. "I think," he said, whispering to avoid an echo. "I think my mind tries to block the- some of the worst, but-" He broke off then, biting his lip and ducking his head again as his throat closed up. _But Lucifer always made sure to remind him._

Dean rolled his head back to look at his little brother, his own chest tightening when he saw the hunched shoulders, heard the hitching breaths. Without a second's hesitation he reached out, catching Sam's left hand in his own, settling the bond on the edge of the tub.

Something seemed to break in Sam at the touch, and he curled his other arm around his stomach as he gasped out a sob. "He- he always reminds me," he choked. "Always. I think I'll be okay, and then he just... the worst, the _worst_ things, Dean, the things that happened..." His whole body jerked with another sob, and Dean was certain that that sound was all it took to completely shatter his heart. He gripped Sam's hand tighter and bent down so his forehead touched their intertwined hands, not entirely surprised when he felt his own tears land on his bare leg.

"I know, Sammy," he whispered, not caring that his voice broke, knowing that Sam knew, that of all people, Dean understood. "I know."

Sam just bent nearly double and wept harder, trying to stifle the sobs that ripped unbidden from his chest. His head was next to Dean's, dripping hair brushing the older brother's arm, and Dean just let him be, almost wishing there was some way he could just not care as much as he did. Anything besides this would hurt less.

When Sam's sounds of anguish didn't seem to be relenting, Dean blinked to clear his eyes and struggled to his feet, never letting go of Sam's hand. He grabbed the blanket before it fell to the floor, unfolding it all the way with a snap, and then settled it around Sam's shaking shoulders. "Come on," he whispered, wrapping his hand gently around the back of his brother's neck. "Let's get you up, out of those wet jeans, alright?"

Sam allowed himself to be pulled up, still choking on cries he didn't want to release, and let Dean yank his dripping jeans off and wrap the blanket around him while he just stood there, shivering, tears and water rolling off his nose and chin. Dean kept moving, knowing that if he stopped to think about it for one second he would be rendered utterly useless.

It worked, until he was reaching up to squeeze water out of handfuls of his little brother's hair, and Sam quieted for a second to look at him through the dark tangles. Dean stared into the clear hazel eyes, swollen from crying, that had been not the same- _not the same_- for so long, and any resolve he had within him dissolved.

"Oh, _god_," he choked, and when he pulled his brother to him he was met with no resistance, Sam folding easily into his hold. Dean hardly knew what to do with his hands, so they rested, trembling, one on the back of Sam's head, the other on the middle of his back, right over the spot where a knife had once left an ugly scar. He buried his face in between Sam's shoulder and neck, and for a moment just breathed, damp wool and little brother flooding his senses.

"I'm here, Sammy," he whispered when Sam succumbed to another exhausted sob, his breath warm against Dean's neck. "I'm here. It's okay. It's gonna be okay..."

He didn't know how long he kept up the whispered litany, just that he would do it forever if it was what Sam needed.

And Sam nodded, even though he knew Dean couldn't see. It would be okay.

End.

**sssssssssssssssssss**

**I feel like I maybe ended it too soon. Did I end it too soon? Does it need an epilogue? Tell me if it needs an epilogue, because I WILL write one.**

**sssssssssssssssssss**

**So there's that... thank you so much to everyone who read, and faved, or followed, and especially to the reviewers! I love you all so much!**

**So just a couple more things...**

**1. I've got a couple people in my family who occasionally bite themselves if they're stressed out, etc. so I kind of wanted to explore that, and ended up doing some research, finding out that it's kind of a milder form of selfharm. It seemed fitting, so... I hope it works!**

**2. Now that this is over, hopefully I'll be able to concentrate better on Well Oiled Machine! In the meantime, would anybody be interested in seeing me write a genderswap fic? I've had some great ideas for one swimming around in my brain, and would love to give it a shot. Let me know what you think!**

**Cheers!**


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